


Always searching, still lost

by orphan_account



Category: 13 Reasons Why (TV)
Genre: Childhood Memories, M/M, Past Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2018-12-17 01:05:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11840772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: No two stories are the same.(I seriously could not think of a summary)





	1. Tony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony's always followed his heart- he's just not always sure what it's telling him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where I'll dump my ideas about some 13 rw characters. Most, but not all, will be based on things that are hinted in the show.

The year Tony begins to play with the big kids on his street, everything changes. They're rowdy, loud and reckless (even though his siblings are every single one of those, he's used to them being like that) and he's not sure what his problem is, really. They're a little obnoxious, he thinks to himself, always spreading out to take up the whole sidewalk, always trying to show one another up, always boasting about "grass and ass". Tony isn't a pushover or naive- he knows what's going on. Still, he joins their little gang, does some graffiti and childish vandalism. He's too distracted to feel overly guilty; it's so much milder than what his brothers do, anyway.

It starts with the spray paint. The colours are so incredibly vivid, smooth like the slowly shifting shades of a sunset. Tony slides the can in the air, arms stiff and unfamiliar. Rain of all colours comes down, settling onto the concrete and seeping into porous rock. He wants to paint the blacker-than-black night sky full of starry lights, the soft green of a cornfield and the golden yellow of sunlight streaming through windows. The other kids, though, are already tagging the walls. Their hands move fast, practiced, writing names with hasty strokes. Tony doesn’t have a street name, but he thinks they’re immensely stupid anyway. Like the kid beside him: Ragbone. _Ragbone_. What does that even mean? But he’s young, and they’re old, so he scratches a quick **TONY** onto the wall in cherry red, and pushes down the uncertainty in his gut.

Maybe he’ll understand them better when he gets a little older.

It's only very late at night, when the house and streets are quiet, that he slips out the back door and lets his feet and his mind wander in the warm summer breeze. Sometimes he thinks about his dad’s cars, school and his brother’s antics. But he has so many thoughts that he itches for a place to keep them, a person to tell, but there’s nobody around, and the street kids would just scoff anyway.

Still, he can’t help it.

 

* * *

 

_There’s a beauty in having nothing and making something out of it._

It’s what he believes in, anyway. He makes sure he never forgets it.

It’s what drives him to start building. Mainly, it’s cars. Fixing them, putting them together, taking them apart- his hands sing in tune with the metal, and he doesn’t mind the pungent odour of gasoline all that much. His dad is thrilled; finally, one of his sons are willing to help out in the shop.

Tony still joins in with the kids on the block as the years go by. But while the leafy burn of pot in his throat is supposed to feel relaxing, the high just makes it harder for him to think, and when his friends catcall the girls waking to school, he sits back quietly.

And that twinge of unease in his gut is ever-present- always questioning, never satiated.

Tony has three older brothers- all a little bit rebellious, and all well known. It’s this influence that allows him to easily graduate from the fake gangsters to the more dangerous groups. It’s what his brothers did when they were his age. He goes along with it; he doesn’t really know anything better.

When he gets stupid enough to voice his opinion a few times, though, the stronger boys kick him to the ground in a good old fashioned beat down. His oldest brother Julian’s there in minutes, punching, grabbing hair and spitting threats that even Tony can't fully understand. His attackers apologize profusely, but he doesn’t go back.

He knows now, as well as the other kids do, that he doesn’t belong.

They corner him one day again, when he foolishly walks down their old hangout street. The first punch is to his face, and he feels his hot blood drip down into his white shirt. When they hit him again (unprovoked), Tony hits back. Harder. But his brother isn’t here to save him this time when they pull out knives. He turns and runs (for his life, probably) as fast as he can.

Two months later, he meets the leader of the group again, but this time, he’s ready. He punches, Tony swerves. It ends eventually. Tony’s sporting a split lip and bruises- significantly mild compared to his attacker’s black eye and broken arm. It’s enough to make sure he won’t be beat up again. To live up to his brother's names, Tony’s got to be a little bit rougher, and a lot bit meaner than he actually is, but it’s okay. The street kids leave him alone to do as he pleases, brushing him off as a reject. He’s too excited to care.

It’s like he’s finally set free.

 

* * *

 

His first escape is driving. He’s not really supposed to drive, but he’s already pushing 80 up and down deserted streets in the midnight silence. It’s fast, it’s scary- it’s everything he needs. There’s a natural rock wall just outside the city, isolated and easy to climb. Tony sits on the tip of the red rocks and watches the city from the top of the cliff (for him, the top of the world).

He likes being alone. There’s nobody to tell him anything. His choices are solely his, on that isolated cliff, or when he’s behind the wheel. He knows there’s a certain responsibility that comes with these things, and he hopes he has it.

But Tony finds an ear to whisper his rampant ideas into in Clay: a skinny, shy kid who smiles at him with bright blue eyes and subtle humour. Clay, of course, doesn’t know what’s going on in Tony’s head, has no way of understanding the crowded torrent of thoughts that underline Tony’s questions, but he’s also extremely smart and quietly funny, and the best company Tony’s had in years, or maybe ever (although Tony doesn’t tell Clay this).

Tony keeps a pocketful of secrets at all times. There's the reoccurring ones: not telling his mom that his brothers have brought girls over, even though he can hear stifled moans through the thin walls, and keeping his own tomfoolery away from his parents, but then there's the dangerous ones, like making sure their neighbours to the right never find out that it was Julian who borrowed their motorbike for a drunk 3AM joy ride.

Tony's very good at keeping secrets. And when he's twelve years old and realizes he doesn't really like girls, well, he keeps that to himself too.

If he becomes a little isolated from the kids his age, if they’re a little afraid of him, he doesn't mind too much. He has a lot on his mind and his thoughts only thrive in the silence. Tony’s been in and out of crowds all his life; he doesn’t put much importance on popularity. There's no reason to kiss ass just because other people like them, he thinks. What he doesn’t understand, though, is that even when they don’t pick on him, they bully Clay. He offers to have his brothers come and take care of it, but Clay refuses nobly. It’s a probably for the best- intent on justice, he doesn’t fully think through the repercussions of the idea as he launches it.

 

* * *

 

Throughout the years, he finds himself in a couple of real fights. They’re not fun, especially when they involve serious, wild card, practically-live-in-juvy delinquents. Tony doesn’t enjoy them- he’d much rather talk things out, clear and easy, but he never backs down from a direct challenge. That would be a scream of weakness loud enough to reach the corners of every street in his neighbourhood; a siren call for those of his old friends to come back in, teeth bared. He doesn’t lose often, but every once in a while he gets a few good punches to the jaw. When he comes to school one day with a broken blood vessel in his eye, making him look like a devil returned, his parents get a call from the principal’s office. He’s grounded and has to stay in his room for two weeks.

Then high school rolls in, loud, tall and heavy. If he doesn’t think it’s bad for the first half, it’s because the highlight of his life comes in sophomore year: a 1968 Ford Mustang, cherry red. The car’s used, but in good condition. It used to be Julian's. He keeps it shiny and beautiful- it’s his pride and joy.

He still hasn’t told anyone he likes boys, but he meets a guy- Ryan. He corners Tony after class and types his number into Tony’s phone. How he knew Tony was gay, Tony still has no idea. He’s a little high maintenance, but it’s kind of endearing, and Tony likes listening to him talk. It’s a flash-paper kind of relationship, fun because it’s new. He kisses Tony over the middle divider of Tony’s car and rests his hands on Tony’s thighs. They even go to the winter formal together, both standing behind the DJ booth, drinking fruit punch (someone’s dumped at least half a bottle of vodka into it). The night is hot and stifling, their clothes itch to be sprawled on the floor. Ryan is Tony’s first kiss, first fuck, first everything.

But then the milk-and-honey stage of their relationship turns sour, and Ryan’s stubbornness starts to feel more and more like a pair of handcuffs. Tony feels it again- that gut wrenching unease. His heart protests (because that’s what it is). He breaks it off- he can’t handle being tied down, not like that.

To distract himself, he tries harder in school- a couple hours spent in the library a week (alone now, except for Clay sometimes). It used to be _Ryan-and-Tony_. Now, it's just Clay-and-Tony.

If Brad’s a rebound boyfriend, well, Tony never really admits it to himself. Maybe, in the back of his mind, he thinks it’s wrong, but he finds it easy to like Brad. Brad is seriously gorgeous, tall and slender, with adorable brown curls. Tony’s infatuated for the most part. His brothers and sister have found out by now; they know that the boys he brings home aren’t just school friends. With Brad, it’s endless hours sitting with overpriced coffee in Monet’s, sun-warmed dates sitting on the hood of his car, overlooking the city. Brad’s a little older, nineteen and in college, he even went to high school with Tony’s brother José. They’ve kissed a few times, but now, Tony’s the one who takes control. It’s a different feeling, and he can't figure out if he likes it. Or maybe, it's just not Brad who he wants it with. He tucks the thought away.

 

* * *

 

He keeps on watching TV as Hannah- beautiful, quiet, thoughtful Hannah Baker- turns on her heel without ringing. The minutes go by. There's an uncomfortable twinge in his gut. It’s been half an hour. He gets up, turns the television off. The box is full of tapes, thirteen, he counts. His Walkman sits on his bedroom floor. The click of the tape, earphones on, a clear, sweet voice- Hannah’s voice.

"This is the story of my life."

He frowns in confusion.

"More specifically, how my life ended."

He’s running to his car and pushing 90 down a 40 road. There’s already police cars outside her house, ambulances. He calls her name, pushing past strangers in his panic.There's a pounding in his ears as he gets to the bathroom on the first floor: a bathtub full of diluted blood, razor blades perched innocently on the edge of the tub. But the whole thing is already taped off. She’s already wrapped in a body bag- a bit of her hair sticks out before the EMT zips it closed. 

There are no handles on the bag. _How the fuck are they going to pick her up?_ It’s all he can think, but they just grab the bag, hands clenched around plastic, and toss her- _toss her_ into the back of the ambulance. The sound of her body hitting the metal floor is unforgettable; hollow, sad, stiff. He sinks to his knees, not trusting himself to move. Her parents are sobbing on the porch, investigators already on the scene. The police detective on the scene confronts him curiously. "She's my friend," he forces out. His voice cracks roughly. Tony's not sure if he’s crying- and maybe he is because they don’t ask him too many questions, only take down his name and address. He’s free to leave, they say.

Back home, at night, he listens to the tapes again, once, twice, three times.

And then, he’s so angry he’s seeing red. It takes all his self restraint to stay in his room, keep himself from going over to Bryce Walker’s place for some kind of confrontation. Clay's on the tapes too, and it's in a particularly painful way. And Hannah’s asked him to keep the second copy, to make sure the first is passed around, just like she asks. To make sure that storm reaches his best friend and tears him right out of the ground. Tony knows he has to- _must_ \- turn in the copy, give it to the police as evidence, understands the repercussions  of withholding such information, but Hannah’s asked him to do something first. It's unspeakable, cruel but morbidly funny at the same time, and it's going to _ruin_ Clay; Clay who is now somehow everything to Tony. But he's already failed her once and there's something he's never, ever been able to control ripping him apart from the inside. So he does what Hannah wants. It's wrong, and he will definitely feel the consequences of it in the near future, but he does it anyway.

Because deep in his heart, he thinks it’s the right thing to do.

****

 


	2. Justin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most people prefer to stay on the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is short as frick - but here is a bit of Foley. I'm thinking of Alex next.

Shaking, shaking.

It’s all he can feel- it’s as if the tremors and endless unsteadiness inside of him have now become known to the outside, peeled open, revealed for everyone to see. But of course, there is no one else standing across from him on the icy metal, the tiny square of platform on the tip of the crane quite deserted save for himself. There’s nobody to see him shiver. And anyway, he’s at least two hundred feet in the air.

Most people prefer to stay on the ground.

This isn’t even the first time Justin Foley’s climbed this fucking crane. It certainly won’t be the last. Well, if he doesn't jump today. When the thought hits, it almost hurts physically; the idea that this will happen again, this stomach crushing sense of doom and loneliness will rear its ugly head again, and again, and again until it either gets better (he doesn’t know how that would happen)... or he slips on his way up, or jumps his way down. He’s just turned sixteen years old last week.

 

* * *

 

Have his friends, Justin wonders, ever wished they weren't born? No- not wished they weren't, but maybe, have they ever wondered why they were? Or even (as he does so often), recognize that they didn’t ask to be born? It’s ungrateful, he knows…but still- if you can’t support a child, use a fucking condom, at least. Justin never tells anyone these thoughts; his friends are too shallow and shit, he’s got nobody else. He ignores the possibility of writing them down even though he wants to- he’s never been one for that lame sad poetry.

When he was a kid (and really, that just means a scarce handful of years before), the first time his father really, really hit him was when he was six years old and pissed himself cos’ they’d locked him in his room for hours. It was a cursory slap, but it caught him by surprise and his head slammed into the drywall. All he could feel for a few moments were stinging, biting pain, see blinding stars and vaguely make out his old man’s yelling. At seven, he cried under the whip of a belt buckle on his back. He didn’t even understand what went wrong, that time. At eight, his mother finally got the courage to leave that asshole, packed all her things in a suitcase and grabbed his hand. With just the clothes on his back, she drove them all the way into the center of this shitty town. It was supposed to be a new life.

His mom has a problem, though. He never really found out what it was- drugs of course. He had his theories. Cocaine? Justin found some white dust the other day on the kitchen table, and stayed well away. He isn’t dumb. And mummy could never escape the memories of her first husband. They come back to haunt her frequently, and in turn, they haunt him as well. He’s been taken to the ER more times than he can count (broken ribs, nose, stomach pains), but he’s good at smiling and talking about his favourite basketball players with the nurses so that they don’t start calling people and asking questions.

 

* * *

 

Justin has to learn how to be charming. It’s not that hard. He just needs to be loud and a bit stupid and hang out with his friends and then everyone thinks he’s just perfect. Bryce teaches him to shake people’s hands.

“Firm, but not too hard,” he tells Justin, smiling at him over his whole-wheat chicken sandwich and apple juice. He’s grateful for Bryce. He owes him everything, really, and sometimes Bryce even lets Justin eat the crust from his sandwich or his cheese round snack -the whole thing!- if he gets too hungry.

Sometimes he pretends that he doesn’t notice himself trying hard to fit in around Bryce and his friends. When they shove one of the smaller kids into a toilet, Justin ignores the way the kid cries and joins in because it’s pretty funny and he doesn’t know what else to do, anyway. 

He joins sports, just like Bryce, and when his mom never scratches up enough money to pay the twenty dollar uniform fee, Justin starts collecting change from couches and even the sidewalk. Only, even when he’s picked up enough nickels to fill his whole hand, he barely has one dollar. Again, Bryce helps him with this when the team coach asks him for the fourth time for the payment, and Justin, blushing in embarrassment, mumbles something about forgetting to ask. Bryce shows up the next day and slips a twenty dollar bill into Justin’s hand during lunch and then shrugs like it’s nothing.

“Stole it from my mom, she won’t mind,” he smiles at Justin, and Justin smiles back.

His own mother would definitely notice twenty whole dollars missing on her usual Friday night mission for an extra pack of beer. She’d ask Gabe where it went, and he would say that Justin had taken it, and then he would stomp over to punch him right in the face while his mom would watch. It was stupid because now he knew it was Gabe who took the money, but back then he couldn’t help thinking it was all a big mistake. Maybe, if mummy was paying more attention, maybe if she wasn’t drunk all the time she would realize that Justin hadn’t really done anything wrong.

When Justin’s fifteen, he meets Meth Seth for the first time. It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, he thinks. Only a week in, he loses his temper and then -crack- the beer bottle smashes against Justin’s face and then Justin's crying hysterically. Seth groans at him to man up.

Justin's voice breaks between sobs.

 

* * *

 

He’s climbing down the crane now, the cracking and clattering of his bones and jaw audible the entire time, and dents in certain rungs already all too familiar. Hopping with decent grace onto solid ground, he shivers suddenly, then looks up at the incredible height. He can’t even see the top from here, the night sky swallowing it whole into inky black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate feedback!


End file.
